No Good Deed
by Lady Sam Mallory
Summary: Someone is killing homeless people causing Sherlock and John to work to protect their homeless network. Meanwhile, John has an enteric fever relapse ending up in the hospital leaving Sherlock to find the serial killer on his own while John fights for his life. COMPLETE.


**No Good Deed**

**Author:** Lady Sam Mallory

**Disclaimers:** Boys not mine; I just borrow them from time to time when the muse moves me.

**Special Thanks to:** My exceptional Beta Queen, Zoe, without whom I'd be doomed to a life of grammatical inaccuracy. You are truly my conductor of light. Thank you for thirty years of friendship.

For my beautiful friend, Heather, whose incredible command of the English language allows her to provide me with individually needed words at a moment's notice.

**Warnings:** H/C, Angst, Smarm, Some violence, and usually a bit of colorful language.

**Spoilers:** None

**Author's Comments: **This story takes place before the _Hounds of the Baskerville_ case, approximately 12-15 months after_ A Study in Pink_.

* * *

"Sherlock, are you okay?" John asks as he comes in the door of the flat to see Sherlock exactly where he left him five hours ago. Sherlock had just received a text from Lestrade that the DI was on his way over when John had walked out the door to go to work. There were three out sick this week, so they needed all hands on deck as it were.

"Sherlock?" John repeats making his way to the detective perched in his chair. "How can you stand to squat like that for so long? My legs would numb," John mumbles.

"Sherlock!" He snaps for the third time.

Sherlock's eyes shift to look at him whilst the rest of him stays perfectly still.

"No need to shout, John. I'm right here," Sherlock scolds, his fingers still in a steeple beneath his angular chin.

John rolls his eyes. "It took shouting your name to get your attention. That was the third time I said it, you know," John informs the detective.

"Oh. Wasn't listening," Sherlock replies, causing John to close his eyes and take a very deep breath.

"What did Lestrade have for you? A new case?" John asks, tidying up the dishes and such left about the flat by Sherlock.

Sherlock looks up at John, his expression completely somber and lacking its usual excitement at the prospect of a new case.

"What is it?" John inquires, becoming genuinely worried at his friend's unusual responses.

Sherlock hands John the file, reciting from memory, "Nine victims: Alec Coates- 38, Stephen Davies- 20, Natalie Finch-17, Miranda Fogg-15, Lee Harker- 17, Brooke Landis- 48, Vena Makepiece- 62, Collin St. John- 54 and Emma Townes- 27.

"Why did they wait to bring you in?" John asks, glancing through the file again. "Never mind, they didn't make the connection because they were homeless."

Sherlock nods affirmatively, adding quietly, "Four of them were mine, John."

"Yours?" John asks, before realization dawns. "The homeless network? Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I knew I recognized some of the names. Would you like me to see about making arrangements?"

Sherlock nods again.

John glances over the names once again. "I recognize Miranda and Natalie, but which other two were from your network?" John asks so he can prepare to make arrangements.

"You know Collin as 'Finder' and Lee as the 'Urchin'," Sherlock informs him quietly.

John looks up at Sherlock, his expression grim, "I'll take care of it."

"I know you will," Sherlock says as he takes the file from John and looks at it more closely. "Thank you."

"I will find this killer, John," Sherlock declares a moment later, his jaw set for battle.

"_We_ will find this killer, Sherlock," John reminds him, his voice shaking with suppressed emotion.

"Yes, we will," Sherlock promises his homeless network. "Yes, we will."

* * *

"Stay close, John. Anabeth is just down this way," Sherlock hollers jumping to another rooftop before sliding to a stop at a fire escape ladder which he leaps onto, turning and catching it in his agile fingers before sliding down onto the landing and running down the metal stairs. They clang beneath his feet, and he hears close echoes signaling John is on the fire escape as well.

Dropping down to the street, he sees Anabeth lying on the ground gasping. "John, get down here!" he yells, unwrapping his scarf, bundling it up and shoving it none too gently into the large gash on the side of her neck.

John falls to the ground gracefully, landing on his feet and promptly slides into the puddle where Anabeth lies choking on her own blood which now runs down the sides of her face into her long blonde hair. "Sher…" she gasps, reaching for Sherlock's arm as he gets up to give chase to the murderer.

"Si…Save Sim…," she cries, her blood spurting all over John's face as he pulls the scarf away to check the wound. He quickly replaces it, shrugs out of his coat and tosses it to Sherlock. John's face tenses as he directs Sherlock to use the coat to put pressure on her other wounds, a cluster of three additional stab wounds to her chest and abdomen.

"I'll find Simon. I'll take care of him," Sherlock promises as she continues to gasp for breath.

"Stay with me, Anabeth. Damnit, we're losing her. Anabeth," John shouts, putting additional pressure down on her neck wound, which causes her to groan in pain.

Lestrade and the Met turn into the alley along with an ambulance. Two paramedics race towards them.

"Tall…brown…. eyes…tat…tiger…lef…hand," she's rasping as John tries to quiet her down.

"I'll get him, Anabeth," Sherlock promises her, feeling suddenly hollow as she starts seizing.

"Shit, liver's probably going," John murmurs, then yells, "Come on, guys, move it!"

Lestrade runs alongside the paramedics. "He's a doctor and has administered first aid on site," Lestrade informs them as they come to a stop and Sherlock gets out of the way.

"She's going into hypovolemic shock," John announces as the paramedics begin to aid John.

"Vitals check, stat," John orders, keeping up the pressure. "Pressure bandages. Shit, what I wouldn't give for Celox right now. Vitals?"

The female paramedic looks up at him and shakes her head.

John sits back, placing the back of his bloody hand in front of his mouth. "Fuck," he whispers, reaching forward and closing her eyes leaving streaks of her blood on her eyelids. His blue eyes are suspiciously wet, but otherwise he is in complete control.

Sherlock leans forward and asks quietly, "She's dead?"

John nods, closing his eyes and then opening them, unsure how Sherlock will react.

Sherlock pulls his long coat closed around him. "Lestrade, we have to go," Sherlock announces, looking at the bloody scarf that John still holds in his steady hands. John begins to wipe his hands off on a towel provided by the paramedics.

He looks questioningly at Sherlock but begins to follow him nonetheless. Lestrade stops him and hands him a large evidence bag in which he stows the bloody scarf. Sherlock hails a taxi. They get in and Sherlock turns towards John. "We need to make a stop first, John. It is unavoidable," he says, giving the cabbie the address.

* * *

"Aldwych Station?" John questions as they arrive at the location.

"Yes, wait here, please," Sherlock tells John, stepping out of the cab and picking the lock to the station after giving the coded knock that Anabeth had insisted upon.

"Simon?" Sherlock hollers out when he enters the abandoned station.

"Sherlock!" He hears as a small bundle hits him squarely in the legs. Sherlock squats down in front of Simon, so small for his nine years, to talk on his level. He hides his surprise at how much Simon looks like his older sister.

"Hello, Simon. Anabeth sent me for you," he tells the tow-headed boy quietly who, with his whitish blonde hair and sweet face, looks at Sherlock with the face of an angel.

"Is she okay, Sherlock?" Simon asks, his green eyes round with apprehension, having already lost both of his parents last year.

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, she isn't," he replies sadly. "Come with me, Simon."

Sherlock turns and walks out of the station with the results of his promise to Anabeth.

He opens the cab door, lifting the boy into John's surprised but waiting arms.

"This is my very good friend John," Sherlock introduces him to Simon.

"Hi, John. I'm Simon," the boy says, before crawling into the seat between the two men and curling up to sleep in the warmth of the taxi.

"Explanation?" John asks, one eyebrow drawn up as he questions the detective.

"Later. Text Mycroft and ask him to meet us at Baker Street," Sherlock asks as he looks down at the dozing child.

To say John is stunned by the request would most certainly be an understatement.

* * *

"Hello, Mycroft," Sherlock utters as he enters the flat, holding the door for John who carries the slumbering child.

"What have we here?" Mycroft asks, gesturing to the small boy.

"His name is Simon, and his sister was murdered tonight," Sherlock informs his brother readily. "I…want you…to find him a family, Mycroft," Sherlock mutters, bringing about a shocked expression, not only on his brother's face, but John's as well.

"Not really my area," Mycroft reminds his little brother coldly.

"Do it, Mycroft. His sister is dead," Sherlock demands.

"Odd," Mycroft notes.

"Yes, it is. I promised his sister as she was dying," Sherlock informs his stubborn brother.

"One of your pet homeless network?" Mycroft inquires disdainfully.

"A human being and a small child," John interjects, while laying the sleeping child on the sofa. John heads into the kitchen to wash Anabeth's blood away. He removes his jumper and scrubs his arms, hands and face until the water in the sink runs clear.

"Very well…for three cases," Mycroft negotiates figuring that Sherlock will never agree to such steep terms.

"Done," Sherlock replies, turning away from his brother and moving to the kitchen to make some tea.

John smiles at the stunned expression on Mycroft's face.

* * *

John closes his eyes and rubs his neck and forehead.

"You okay?" Sarah asks as she walks into his office and then giggles a bit when he startles. "I'm sorry, um, I knocked, but…," she finishes, her lips twitching with amused embarrassment.

"No problem, Sarah. What can I do for you?" John asks helpfully, placing the files that he was currently working on aside.

"Actually, I was coming to tell you that we're done for the day. Headache?" Sarah inquires sympathetically.

"Yeah, I'll take something when I get back to the flat," John tells her as he packs up his files to go for the day. "Thanks for letting me know it was getting so late. I'm supposed to meet Sherlock at 6 at Angelo's."

"Nice dinner planned?" She questions with a knowing smile.

"Knowing Sherlock, probably not," John responds, grabbing his jumper off the hook on the back of the door. "Thanks again. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Sherlock's got you working nearly every night, and you're working for Gabrielle nearly everyday, John. That's a bit much, don't you think?" Sarah interrogates gently.

"It's not going to let up either. Anabeth died nine days ago, and we still don't have the guy who killed her, Sarah," John reminds her why Sherlock is pushing so hard on this case. "There've been three more bodies in that time. One more from the network, Edmund. He was only nineteen."

John throws on his jumper and walks out the door, Sarah close behind him.

"Did Mycroft find a family for Simon?" She questions, her eyes wide with hopefulness.

"The very next morning," John replies, shaking his head, frankly surprised at how quickly Mycroft had completed his little brother's request.

"That's wonderful," Sarah exclaims, clasping her hands together under her chin.

"It is," John agrees then leans forward conspiratorially. "Sherlock promised Mycroft three cases for it."

"Wow!" Sarah utters surprised at Sherlock's willingness to help a small child.

"I admit, I was a bit surprised myself, but I shouldn't have been," John responds smiling tiredly as he grabs a taxi outside the surgery.

* * *

John groans when his alarm sounds. He reaches over and shuts it off. Opening his eyes, then forcing them even wider, he drags himself up in the bed.

His head will kill him quickly if he doesn't swallow a few paracetamol, which he does before standing up and stretching for the day.

John sighs heavily. "I'm getting old," he complains as he stretches his aching joints and muscles once again.

"John, come on. I have a new lead," Sherlock hollers from downstairs, and John groans once again.

"Coming," he yells in return and begins to pull on clean clothes before grabbing a jumper from the wardrobe. He rubs his head and prays the paracetamol will kick in soon.

Shutting off the light, he makes his way down the stairs to start yet another day of chasing this bloody killer.

"John! We…" Sherlock bellows, only to be brought up short when John enters the room.

"Right here," John says with a small wave.

Sherlock races out the door with John right on his heels and flags down a taxi, which, of course, stops immediately.

John climbs in behind Sherlock who hands him something as he settles in the seat. John looks down to find a Tesco brand Cranberry Cereal Bar in his hand. He smiles at the thoughtfulness before his stomach lurches a bit.

_Not ready for food. Got it._

He pockets the bar for later. "Thanks, mate," he says smiling over at Sherlock. "So, where're we going?"

"Ella left word that she needs to speak with us," Sherlock informs the doctor as they pull to a stop.

John coughs as he climbs from the taxi, and for a second is worried when it sticks with him for a moment, leaving him gasping for breath.

Sherlock is already halfway up the block.

John pays the cabbie quickly.

"You okay, mate?" The cabbie asks John who is gasping.

"Fine, thanks," John replies, before taking off up the street at a brisk jog to catch up with his friend and flatmate.

He makes up the difference fairly quickly, meeting up with Sherlock just as he comes to a stop at a small café. Ella waits for them patiently, smiling when she sees Sherlock striding up the street.

Sherlock hands Ella a tenner and leans down to listen to her. Her long, dark, scraggly hair falls from the string she has used to tie it up. She offers her hand to Sherlock and John who shake it without pause.

"What'd you find, Ella?" Sherlock inquires, leaning even closer to listen to her raspy voice.

"Ian sent me. He says you'll be mighty glad to know he saw some wanker in black trench coming out of The Blind Beggar this day. I got word to you fast as I could. He had the mark, you know, the one you been askin' about," Ella rattles off scarcely stopping to breathe.

John looks up at a sudden realization, "Where's Ian, Ella?"

"He's followin' the bloke. Said he couldn't let 'im outta his sight," she tells them as if it should be obvious.

Sherlock straightens when he hears this, "Did you see the man?"

"Gotta bit a look, but not much. Read 'bout that tiger back when I were in school. Don't 'member much 'bout it, though," she admits.

"Ella, did he see you?" Sherlock asks, gripping her more tightly than he intends.

"Don't right know. Don't think so though. Ian sent me 'way to get you the message," Ella relates as John closes his eyes and shakes his head a bit. "Said he'd follow 'im and meet you tonight outside Baker Street."

Sherlock nods. "Thank you, Ella. Be…careful," he requests quietly.

John looks over her critically, "You staying clean, Ella?"

Ella returns his look and snaps, "Well, I ain't 'ad time for bath, you know."

"Play nice, Ella," Sherlock warns and she drops the attitude.

Bringing her head up, her hazel eyes meeting John's blue ones, she answers, "Yes, Dr. John. I promise."

John chuckles then coughs as she holds up three fingers in the Scout's sign. He shakes his head.

"Stay outta trouble," he warns pointing at her, his face adorned with his most serious expression as he hands her another tenner.

She giggles and pockets it. "'k. See ya," she sings, laughing, before melting into the crowd.

* * *

_We got another one_

_Merlin Street_

_Charles Rowan House  
_

_GL_

Sherlock steps into the busy street and hails a taxi. John gets in behind him, and it takes off for Merlin Street.

Both men sit introspectively for the duration of the short ride watching the passing scenery.

Sherlock gets caught up in his thoughts. This case is proving to be more difficult than he had first anticipated. Thirteen, no fourteen bodies now, and he feels no closer to catching this bloody murderer.

_What am I missing?_

The taxi pulls over, and Sherlock bounds from it. John gives the driver a several quid tip, especially grateful that he did not try to engage them in conversation.

John hides a cough in his sleeve and turns up his collar against the biting wind as he walks slightly behind Sherlock on his right side. He nearly runs into the taller detective when he stops suddenly.

John glances up to see Sherlock's face tense almost painfully upon seeing the victim lying face down in the entryway. He redirects his gaze to see what Sherlock has observed.

"It's Ian," John relates to Lestrade, as he approaches the body whilst donning a pair of

gloves. The sudden change in temperature causes John to shiver.

Lestrade looks around Charles Rowan House and smiles.

"Really, Lestrade? Smiling at a crime scene?" Sherlock asks, making tsking noises with his tongue.

"My grandfather lived here along with my dad," Lestrade reports reminiscing. "My dad was a Yarder and so was his father before him. This used to be housing for police officers and their families in the 1920's."

Sherlock nods at the irrelevant information as John smiles at learning a little more about the Detective Inspector and his background. "That's remarkable, Greg. You can almost feel the history here," John whispers respectfully as he crouches down to check the body.

"Sherlock, it's not Ian," John says as he sees the man's face close up. He finishes his examination of the back of the victim and glances up at Anderson. "Is it okay to turn him over now?" He asks the forensic specialist.

"Fine. I've got the snapshots from this angle. Let me help you turn him," Anderson suggests, bending over to help turn the body.

John leans back out of the way to allow Anderson to work then moves forward at Anderson's approving nod.

John looks over to Sherlock. "Do you know him?" He inquires as the consulting detective analyzes the scene.

Sherlock looks at the young man carefully. He's the same age and physical size as Ian but with a more angular face. "No," Sherlock replies, then raising his eyebrows, he turns to inspect the surrounding scene.

"Do go on, John," he beckons, his blue eyes taking in thousands of bits of information, analyzing their importance, and then determining whether to file or delete them.

John looks over at the always-moving detective grimly, "Along with the two knife wounds in his back, his throat was slit, and there are four additional stab wounds in the chest and abdomen. Cause of death is most likely exsanguination."

Anderson nods and tells them, "That's _exactly_ what I came up with."

"Improvement, very good, Anderson," Sherlock snaps bending over to turn his critical eye upon the body itself. John always does a sound analysis, if occasionally incomplete.

John stands up and the walls seem to melt around him. He forces his way backwards in an effort not to contaminate the crime scene and keeps stumbling until Lestrade grabs his arm.

"John?" Lestrade questions lowering John gently to the ground, when he realizes there's no way the man can stay standing. "Sherlock? John's down," he informs the oblivious detective still examining the dead body.

Sherlock whirls around in a flurry of flared coat tails. "John!" He cries out in shock and leaps forward to check on his faithful friend and blogger.

His hand brushes John's pocket as he reaches for his wrist to check his pulse. Sherlock cannot hide his astonishment when he realizes that there are multiple cranberry cereal bars there. Sherlock reaches into John's pocket and pulls out half a dozen of them.

"Maybe he forgot to eat them," Donovan adds leaning over Sherlock to check on the doctor.

"One maybe, but six? I highly doubt that," Sherlock concludes, setting them to the side. "I actually can't remember when he ate last."

"What?" Donovan retorts. "Doesn't the man have any bloody privacy?"

"He's coming 'round," Lestrade interjects, tapping gently on the sides of John's face.

"What…" John slurs his eyes blinking rapidly as he tries to process what has happened.

"You passed out, John," Sherlock informs his supine friend.

John's hard, uncomprehending gaze amuses Sherlock. "Be serious," John bites out, his blue eyes flashing dangerously.

Sherlock just crouches next to him with a stern expression on his face.

"You are serious," John realizes, before pushing hands away and attempting to stand up.

"Quite," Sherlock replies with a hint of agitation about what is wrong with John. "When did you eat last?" He questions, his tone telling the blonde doctor that an answer better be forthcoming.

"You gave me a cereal bar, remember?" John returns with a tentative smile on his face, which disappears when Sherlock holds up the half dozen unopened bars.

"These?" Sherlock demands quietly, his limited patience beginning to wear thin. "Do you need a doctor?"

"I am a doctor," John reminds him with a glare.

"I was thinking an unbiased one who might actually pay attention to your health," Sherlock criticizes gently.

John rolls his eyes and grabs Sherlock's hand to pull himself up. "I'm fine," he tells everyone still standing around him gawking.

"No privacy at all, right?" Donovan asks sympathetically.

John gives her a look. "You have no idea," he replies, brushing off his jumper and pants.

* * *

Sherlock perches on his chair as John makes tea. When the kettle sounds, John makes a cuppa for each of them and takes a seat across from Sherlock after handing him his tea.

They sit in silence for a few moments before Sherlock speaks, "I'm serious, John."

John nods. "I know. Very," he replies sarcastically, grabbing up the paper and flipping it open to read.

"John?" Sherlock tries again then changes tactics when he realizes that the man is ignoring him. "You haven't eaten more than a few slices toast in nearly four days. You've got fever, though not very high, and you've taken the maximum dosage of paracetamol for the past six days. You are obviously unwell."

John sighs, folds down the paper and looks Sherlock directly in the eye. "I've caught a bit of a bug, that's all. I'm just tired and I've had a few headaches, but I promise you that I'm fine," he soothes, knowing Sherlock will not let this go until he's absolutely satisfied.

Sherlock watches him for a few moments before nodding and reaching for the next file on the stack. "Lestrade gave me copies of the autopsy files for two more of the victims as we were leaving the crime scene. The backlog on these files has been ridiculous, John," Sherlock informs the doctor as he opens Anabeth's file.

"They're working as hard as they can. We have one case. They are juggling many, Sherlock. We go over this every time you can't get a file at the snap of your fingers," John snaps, pushing his fingertips against his forehead whilst trying to be discreet about it.

Sherlock reads the autopsy report thoroughly engrossed in every detail. "Another headache, John?" He asks, not once looking up from the documents.

John lowers his hand and glares at the all-seeing Kreskin perched in the chair across from him. He stands up and heads to the kitchen to grab the paracetamol.

Sherlock comes across an interesting piece of information in the file and uses his mobile to verify it.

"John, we need to take you to hospital, now!" Sherlock orders as he closes the file and leaps up from the chair. He grabs John's coat and starts to force the man into it.

"Sherlock, stop this nonsense," John gripes as he tries to remove his coat.

"Anabeth's blood test showed a positive result for _Salmonella typhi. _Molly said in her report that she displayed indicators of typhoid. You were covered in her blood just twelve days ago. I checked and the incubation period for typhoid is 7-14 days. We…_need_…to get _you_…to hospital, _now_!" Sherlock states emphatically pulling John towards the door of the flat.

John walks sluggishly as the full impact of all that Sherlock has said in the last few minutes hits him. He pulls his arm from Sherlock's firm grasp. "Sherlock, wait," he gasps, drawing back into the flat for a moment.

"You're wasting time, John," Sherlock complains, standing in the doorway tapping his foot restlessly.

"Actually, I'm saving time," John informs him, grabbing Anabeth's file and moving through the door past the agitated detective.

* * *

"Sit down, Sherlock. You're making me dizzy," John chastises as the nurse takes what feels like half his blood.

Sherlock rolls his eyes but complies immediately, drawing his long legs up in the chair in an effort to rein in his restlessness.

"Thank you," John says appreciation evident in his weary expression.

A doctor steps into the treatment room, "Mr. John Watson?"

John nods as Sherlock corrects saying, "Doctor John Watson" as he often does in these situations. John's amusement is tainted with the worry of possibly having enteric fever once again.

"Sorry, _Doctor _Watson, I'm Dr. Sturridge," he introduces before getting down to business. "You're sure that you were exposed to the typhoid virus?"

"You know what they say, 'No good deed goes unpunished,'" John answers dryly.

The doctor regards him with a quizzical expression.

"Yes, that's what the file shows," John answers seriously, his patience wearing thin at this doctor's absolute lack of bedside manner.

"We need some time to evaluate the test. We do have the Typhidot Test available, so we will be able to tell you in about three hours if you're infected," the elderly doctor informs the pale man seated on the stretcher.

John smiles. "You'll need to run the Typhidot-M test instead of the standard. I had enteric fever nearly 18 months ago in Afghanistan," John tells Dr. Sturridge.

"Before he was invalided back to London," Sherlock adds helpfully, still curled up in the chair in the corner.

The elderly doctor motions to the nurse who has just entered the room. "Take Dr. Watson's vitals," he orders.

"Yes sir," she replies sweetly, affixing the blood pressure cuff to John's right arm.

The nurse, Rosalie Willis according to her nametag, measures his pulse and respiration after taking his blood pressure and temperature.

"What's the damage?" John asks with a tired smile on his face.

"Your blood pressure is 104/62, temperature- 38.9ºC (102ºF), respiration rate- 15 and your pulse rate is 65. The doctor would like me to do a Hep-Lock, Dr. Watson," Rosalie relates the doctor's orders clearly pulling out the equipment she will need to follow the instructions.

"Hep-Lock?" Sherlock interjects from the corner.

"The nurse is going to insert an angiocath so they can give me injections or start an IV," John explains to Sherlock, closing his eyes in exhaustion as he starts to waver slightly on the stretcher.

Sherlock steps up to the side of the bed, startling both John and Rosalie, who hands John a gown she has just retrieved from the wardrobe.

"Put this on, please," she asks politely. "I'll be right outside if you need me."

John takes the gown, his eyes remaining closed, and starts to remove his jumper. "I'm tired, Sherlock," he mumbles, listing toward the bottom edge of the bed.

Sherlock shakes his head at John's lack of coordination brought on by the illness. "Really, John. We should experiment on the rapid drop in your efficiency during illness. It is actually quite remarkable," Sherlock observes, taking the gown from John's fumbling fingers and finally getting his shirt off.

"Piss off you bloody wanker," John murmurs without much spite.

Sherlock's eyes widen and he draws up short at the remnants of carnage that he almost forgets is there. He stares at the scars he rarely sees because John always keeps them covered.

The still angry looking scar from the bullet that shattered his collarbone is obviously still there, but the worst scars are the ones left by Moriarty when he kidnapped John before coming to meet Sherlock at the pool. His own name and a heart emblazoned across John's chest along with the bastard's signature.

Sherlock closes his eyes, the gown dropping from suddenly numb fingers.

John places his hand on top of Sherlock's trembling ones. "It's alright, Sherlock. I'm okay," John reminds his friend as he turns over Sherlock's left hand, palm face up, glancing down at the small round cigarette burn scar that remains from that time. "I'm not the only one with scars."

Sherlock nods, his calm demeanor once again restored and his mask firmly in place.

He picks up the gown from where it dropped on the floor and places it quickly on John. He dispatches with John's trousers with the same efficiency, folding them and placing them with the rest of John's clothes on his chair.

"Thanks," John replies tiredly as Sherlock helps him to sit up further in the bed, when all he really wants to do is lie down.

"You're burning, John. Drink some water," Sherlock advises placing the cup at John's lips and reminding him to drink.

Rosalie pops back into the room, grabs the angiocath off the tray, and searches for an adequate vein in the back of John's left hand.

"He's left handed. You'll need to do the IV in the right," Sherlock observes and Rosalie switches sides immediately.

"Thank you for letting me know," she says with a smile, causing Sherlock to tip his head to the side in retrospection. "What?"

John chuckles dryly which brings about a coughing fit. "He's used to the nurses mumbling about what a bossy git he is. I think you've confounded him," John replies, still coughing so hard that he has to bend over to keep from making himself sick.

Rosalie giggles at the assessment. "Well, I will do everything to make Dr. Watson's stay here as comfortable as possible," Rosalie tells Sherlock patting him gently on the arm.

"We should keep her," Sherlock offers to John, a sly expression upon his face.

Rosalie's eyes open wider when John replies, "She's not a pet, Sherlock," and Rosalie can tell this conversation has happened before, perhaps more than once.

"There you go, Hep-Lock's in. Do you need anything before I go, Dr. Watson?" she asks quietly, settling the blankets up around his shoulders.

John shakes his head too tired to answer.

"Okay, you rest and I'll be back to check on you in a little while," Rosalie promises as she leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

* * *

"Dr. Watson?" Dr. Sturridge speaks, trying to wake the good doctor from his kip.

John shakes himself awake, putting his hand out to steady himself as he rises up in the bed. "Sor…sorry," he says clearing his scratchy throat.

John blinks a few times to dispel the sleep there and turns his attention on the doctor. "Go ahead, Dr. Sturridge, I'm listening," John beckons the older man to read through and deliver the test results.

"Well, the Typhidot-M test came back positive for typhoid," he informs John of the results.

John's expression does not change at all. He knows that he is having problems and that the test would probably be positive. Sherlock's expression, however, changes dramatically for him anyway. His eyes widen fractionally, his jaw sets and his blue eyes show the concern he has for his friend before he manages to replace his mask.

"It'll be fine, Sherlock," John reassures his friend having seen the slip in his usual façade, then he returns his gaze to the doctor in gratitude for all his help.

"Thank you, Doctor," John relays, only to be a bit embarrassed, if not at all shocked, when Sherlock steps up behind Dr. Sturridge and nearly gives him a heart attack.

"Why thank the man? That news is deplorable," Sherlock snaps disdainfully.

"Sherlock, behave," John admonishes before settling lower into the bed shivering.

Dr. Sturridge sighs looking over his notes. "Obviously, I'm admitting you," he informs John, ignoring Sherlock's eye roll. "An orderly will be in to take you up as soon as possible. I've contacted Infection Control, as they will be helping with your case. We will also need to put you in a private room. All appropriate infectious disease protocols have been put into effect."

John nods and replies, "I would expect nothing less."

* * *

In the new, but still bland room, Sherlock helps John with the blankets so that he can get a bit of rest. He settles in the chair in the corner to get a little much needed rest of his own.

"I'll be right here, John, should you need anything," Sherlock advises the sick man trembling in the bed.

Sherlock pulls out his mobile and texts Lestrade.

_John at PGH_

_Typhoid_

_Room 342_

_Need laptop_

_Need mobile chargers_

_Please_

_SH_

"Lestrade will be dropping off the laptop in a bit. Do you need anything?" Sherlock asks John, who can barely keep his eyes open, yet still shakes his head to answer.

A nurse walks into the room. "Hello, I'm Annie, and I'll be your nurse today. How are you feeling, Dr. Watson?" She asks, adjusting his blankets and reaching for the thermometer in her pocket.

Taking his temperature, she jots down the results and moves to check his other vitals. Her friendliness puts John at ease which by turn allows Sherlock to relax a bit.

He takes a seat in the chair in the corner and steeples his fingers beneath his chin, studying the nurse while he runs over the case information in his overworking brain.

"Let me know if you need anything, love," Annie reminds John, placing his call button well within his reach.

John turns onto his right side, facing Sherlock, and allows the man's calming influence to overtake his exhausted mind and body.

* * *

Greg Lestrade reaches for his mobile at the text alert. They have just finished processing the scene.

He accesses the text from Sherlock. "Bloody hell. Typhoid? And now the man's said please," he exclaims, before shouting at the rest of his unit stowing their gear. "Alright, let's wrap it up. I've got to go to hospital to see John."

He sends his reply.

_Will be there shortly_

_GL_

Several minutes later, his mobile beeps again, and he retrieves it from his pocket with a sigh.

_Do hurry._

_SH_

Lestrade smiles tightly and taps in a new message, shaking his head.

_Understood_

_GL_

Lestrade shoves his phone into his coat pocket, gets in the sedan, and makes his way toward Baker Street.

* * *

Sherlock's head pops up at the light tap on the door. He checks that John's still asleep before issuing a quiet invitation to come in.

Lestrade strolls in with a laptop bag in one hand and a tray of coffee in the other. "Thought you could probably use this as well," Lestrade offers as he hands the tray to Sherlock.

"Most definitely," Sherlock responds, sipping the coffee and closing his eyes at the warm rich flavors that pass over his tongue. "And from John's favorite shop."

Lestrade nods and offers, "I figured that he could probably use a cup if it's permitted."

"He could absolutely use a cup," John announces from the bed, his voice raspy and exhausted. John rolls his neck and stretches sore muscles with a groan and extends his hand for the cup just as the nurse walks in.

"I'll take that," Annie says with a disapproving glare as she intercepts the cup, and John closes his eyes and drops his head back on the pillow. "You're already dehydrated, Dr. Watson."

She sets the coffee on the small table across the room and takes John's temperature. "Up to 39.8ºC (103.8ºF)," she says clucking her tongue. She checks the flow rate on his IV, nods satisfactorily, and promises to return momentarily.

John groans from the bed. "What is it, John?" Sherlock inquires crossing to stand right next to his bed and placing a gentle hand on the infirmed man's forehead.

John blows out a breath, inhales, then blows out another, but remains quiet with his eyes closed.

"You're in pain," Sherlock surmises, then restates this to Annie when the nurse returns to the room.

"I know," she replies holding up a syringe in one hand and a small foil pack in the other.

"What're those?" Sherlock inquires, his head tipped to the side as he observes while Lestrade steps off to the side.

She pushes the needle into the port of his IV releasing the medicine. "This is a bit of morphine to take the edge off and…oh!" Annie exclaims, setting aside the foil pack as she grabs up a flannel and holds it over John's face with her double gloved hand as an alarming amount of blood pours from his nose. She helps John lean forward, tipping his head to the front as well, then reaches for the call button.

"Yes, may I help you?" A disembodied feminine voice comes over the speaker.

"Lila, it's Annie in 342. I need you to bring some QuickClot 4 X 4's down here, now, please," she requests calmly returning her free hand to the back of John's head. "How are we doing?"

John presses the fingers of his left hand against the bridge of his nose in an effort to stop the bleeding. He gives her a thumb's up with the right and looks over at Sherlock's face which registers alarm at the amount of blood pouring out of him.

He makes the additional effort to speak to comfort his obviously agitated friend. "'M okay, Sherlock," John reassures his friend as he rests his elbows against the knees he's drawn up.

John's abdominal pain increases suddenly causing him to tense up and attempt to lie back in the bed.

"I know, Dr. Watson. Just another second and she'll be here," Annie reminds him quietly continuing to hold him in place with her deceptively strong arm.

Another nurse comes through the door hurriedly. She wears two sets of gloves, as well, which Sherlock notices, of course and causes him to think that what he thought was a personal preference is something more. He engages his mind to discover the reason for this.

He smiles as the answer easily comes to him. _ Of course, this is part of the Infection Control Protocols that the doctor mentioned earlier._

"Okay, here we go," Annie says as she places the specially coated 4 X4's in John's nostrils to stem the flow of blood. She turns to Sherlock and Lestrade, "This is special sterile gauze coated in mineral called kaolin which is a haemostatic agent. It stops the bleeding very quickly."

Lila interrupts with further orders, "There we go. It's done. Let's leave those in for a bit just to make sure it doesn't start up again. Annie, why don't you come back down in about ten minutes and remove them."

She looks at Dr. Watson with a smile. "Yes, ma'am. I still need to get the antibiotic going. The nosebleed diverted me a bit," she replies then turns to John when Lila takes her exit.

"So the foil package is the antibiotic?" Lestrade asks once things seem to have calmed slightly.

"Yes. It's called Ciprofloxacin, or Cipro, which will help fight the infection in Dr. Watson's blood," Annie informs them.

Sherlock steps back over to the bed to check on John.

Pointing at Sherlock, Annie reveals, "He seems the type of bloke that requires a lot of information."

John barks out a laugh at this, only to laugh harder when Lestrade observes, "That's an understatement if I ever heard one."

* * *

John awakens to the sound of Sherlock's fingers flying across the laptop keys. His eyes flutter open, before he closes them against the pain in his abdomen.

_I really don't want to do this again. _John thinks, moaning when he attempts to change position.

Sherlock's head comes up at the sound. "Hello, John," Sherlock greets with a small, relieved smile.

"Hey," John rasps, his sore throat preventing much more in the way of speech. He grabs his head with both hands and moans again.

"You're in pain. Should I get the nurse?" Sherlock asks from a position right next to John which startles the ailing man.

"No," John replies, "not time." He pushes his face into the pillow trying to settle so that he can lie perfectly still, when he suddenly shifts up on his elbow. "Up. Need the loo again," John says, groaning as he pushes his body to sitting at the edge of the bed.

Sherlock wraps an arm around the shivering blonde doctor. "I've got you," Sherlock reminds him and helps him to stand.

Walking very slowly, John pushing the IV pole, they make it to the toilet where Sherlock helps John complete his business, then returns him to bed.

John's stomach complains loudly as they get back, and Sherlock tries to hand him a cup of water. John pushes it away saying, "Damnit, back to the loo. The diarrhea's killing me."

John climbs up out of the bed with Sherlock's help.

"Call the nurse to help me. You need to leave soon or you'll miss Ian," John reminds Sherlock as they make their way back to the toilet.

"No," Sherlock starts, knowing exactly where his duty lies in this situation.

John glares at him knowingly. "You can't miss that meeting, Sherlock."

"Let's get you back to bed," Sherlock insists as he helps him to clean up yet again.

John stumbles and Sherlock's strength keeps him upright. They make it to the bed and the detective helps him into it.

John offers a weary smile. "I'll be fine. I'm settled, there are several nurses out there, and you've got a murderer to catch. He killed Anabeth, Sherlock. You have to find him," John prods the world's only consulting detective and his very best friend.

Sherlock considers for a moment before nodding and grabbing his coat. He looks John over one more time, studying every nuance and expression on the doctor's face.

John schools his expression, but not too much or Sherlock will know. He meets the detective's eye and lets him know definitively that he will be alright.

Sherlock nods one more time, throws on his Belstaff, fixes his scarf and after a light tap and squeeze to John's left hand, he makes his way out the door.

* * *

Ian waits at the outer doors of the flat by the time Sherlock steps from the taxi.

"'ello, Sherlock. I've got something for you, but it's not much. I managed to put together a rough sketch of the man I found with the tiger tattoo on the back of his left hand. Don't know if it'll give you a lot, but it may be a place to start," Ian reports as he hands Sherlock a drawing.

"Quite good, Ian," Sherlock praises, causing Ian to smile.

"Where's Dr. John?" Ian asks in concern for the older man that he's grown to like over the past year.

Sherlock answers shortly clearly distracted, "In hospital."

"Oh shit, is he okay?" Ian asks, his voice riddled with concern for the man who helps them so much providing medicines and aid. When someone in the network is sick, Dr. John is always there.

Sherlock looks at the young man in front of him before he replies, "He will be."

"Good. We need men like Dr. John. He helps people, you know. I better get along but wanted to make sure you got that," Ian tells him, shoving his hands in his pockets and turning to walk away.

"Ian," Sherlock calls, bringing the young man back as he hands him 20 quid.

Ian shakes his head. "Keep it for Dr. John," he says shoving the note back toward Sherlock.

Sherlock's hands remain in his pockets. "Take it, Ian. I shudder to think what Dr. John would do to me if you do not," Sherlock reminds the young man of the doctor's tenacity and temper.

"Right, well I wouldn't want harm to come to ya," Ian reconsiders, sticking the note in his pocket. "Tell Dr. John we're thinkin' 'bout 'im."

Sherlock nods. "I will, and Ian?" He pauses as the young man turns to face him, "Thank you."

* * *

John nearly whimpers as the pain increases exponentially within his abdomen. His chest is tight, and it's hard to breathe. He needs another jab of morphine, but every time he asks Sherlock, nothing happens.

He shakes even harder as the door pushes open. Annie has come to check on one of her favorite patients. She's heard other nurses complain about Sherlock, but once she realized that he just requires more information than most patients' families, they got on just fine.

She takes one look at the febrile, shaking form on the bed and tells him she'll be back momentarily.

"Sher…. lock," John slurs, his eyes bright as blue stained glass.

She returns with a syringe filled with what John is now calling "liquid gold," and he sighs as he finds some relief for the first time in the past hour. "Sherlock," he whispers again and again.

"Dr. Watson?" Annie calls softly. "Please, do not wait so long to call me if you're in that much pain."

John nods his head, his red eyes filled with tears. She rubs his head and face gently and efficiently with a cool damp flannel.

"Sherlock…," John speaks out on a shallow sigh of breath.

"He's not here, Dr. Watson, but he'll be back soon. I'm gonna take your temperature, okay?" Annie verifies before she reaches over him. "40.7ºC (105.2ºF). Jesus, Dr. Watson, let's bring that down a bit shall we."

She retrieves the plastic basin from the bedside table and fills it with alcohol. Annie grabs a flannel and dips it into the room temperature liquid. Wringing it out, she sets it aside and undoes the tie at the doctor's neck.

Annie gently disengages the snaps and rearranges the gown so that John's chest and stomach are uncovered, the gown bunched up at his waist. Picking up the cloth that she has prepared, she begins to wipe him down efficiently, hoping to bring his fever down.

She glances at the scars marking his chest, a bit surprised to find so many obvious signs of torture.

Now that the morphine has kicked in, John notices that someone is bathing him. His eyes flutter open to catch Nurse Annie staring sadly at the scars on his chest.

"Kidnapped by…a psychopath," John informs her then smiles at her startled expression.

"Wow, that's…. horrible," she replies, causing John to break up in huffs of laughter, which in turn makes her smile.

"And the gunshot? Never mind, it's none of my business. I'm sorry," Annie manages quickly, her face tinged pink.

"It's fine. Um…I was shot in Afghanistan," he relates as she finishes up the febrile bathing and resituates his gown accordingly.

"That's worse. Shot in Afghanistan and kidnapped by a psychopath, sounds like a bit more excitement than I normally see. I have a scar on my wrist where my cat, Snickers, got me, but otherwise…" Annie fades out grateful that he seems to be more coherent than when she came to check on him.

"Thank you," John tells her gratefully as he turns onto his right side, tucking his hand under his head.

"You're welcome," she whispers as she leaves the room.

He exhales in relief at the small measure of dignity she's offered and closes his eyes to allow the morphine to drag him down into painless medically induced oblivion.

* * *

Sherlock quietly lets himself back into John's room in the early hours of the morning. He glances over at the shaking form curled up on the bed. Striding swiftly across the room, he removes his glove and places his hand on John's forehead.

John's pain glazed eyes open with the contact of Sherlock's much cooler hand, and he offers the slightest smile to his friend.

Sherlock returns the smile and removes his other glove. "You _still_ have fever. Why did I bring you here if they're not going to make you better?" Sherlock complains quietly in deference to John's obvious headache.

"Takes time, Sherlock," John forces out between chattering teeth, his breath coming in shallow wheezing gasps.

Sherlock pushes the call button and rolls his eyes at the "Yes, may I help you?" that rings out from the speaker.

"Well, that is why I pushed the button," he replies snidely, squashing any further comments when he sees John's blatant expression of disapproval. He takes a deep breath, "May we have another blanket, please?"

John nods in approval causing Sherlock's face to scrunch up, "I'm serious, John. I'm not willing to give them a lot of time to make you better."

John's chuckle brings forth a coughing fit. He gasps and looking at Sherlock with amusement in his watery eyes says, "It'll take however long it takes. Last time was three weeks and I was in better shape then because of the army."

Sherlock pauses to think on that. "John, I'm nearly absolutely positive that a gunshot wound in the shoulder which has shattered your collarbone does not qualify as better shape," he remarks dryly taking in John's red-rimmed eyes. It was his duty as John's friend to banish the upset.

As expected, John chokes on a laugh just as the nurse enters with another warm blanket.

* * *

Sherlock stares at the drawing Ian gave him nearly a full day ago. The face looks vaguely familiar, but he cannot place it, which he finds to be ridiculously annoying.

John coughs in the bed resulting in his waking himself up. He gazes about the room, his eyes coming to rest on Sherlock's form sitting up tall in the chair with his laptop.

"Mine?" John gasps, his eyes still on the laptop, as he struggles to breathe in even a small amount of oxygen.

"No, it's mine. Lestrade actually brought them both so when you feel up to it…," Sherlock informs the ill doctor.

"I'm sick," John states obviously, convulsing with another fit before continuing on, "I'm very sick."

"Yes, you are, but you will get better, John," Sherlock assures his friend, crossing the room to the bed to take John's fevered hand in his own.

John shakes his head negatively, his eyes boring into Sherlock's praying to be understood.

"He…he's…sick," John mumbles hoping that Sherlock will use his above average brain to figure out what he's trying to say.

"Who's sick?" Sherlock looks at him, wondering if he's delirious when his eyes widen with comprehension as the answer hits him and he bursts out with, "the killer?"

John chokes, nods and replies, "Mmmmhmmm….," As he drifts back to sleep, his face drawn and pale.

Sherlock looks down at him with fondness, brushing sweat drenched hair from his friend's forehead. "John. You are brilliant," he whispers before pulling out his mobile to text Lestrade.

He shoves his mobile into his pocket and takes John's trembling hand in his. Concentrating on his friend's struggle to breathe, Sherlock startles slightly when a nurse enters the room.

"Who are you?" Sherlock demands as the nurse spreads a warmed blanket out over his shivering friend.

"I'm Susannah, Dr. Watson's overnight nurse," the nurse answers quietly, reaching for the blood pressure cuff on the bed rail. She pats John's shoulder shaking him awake again. "I need to check your vitals again, Dr. Watson."

Sherlock waves his hand over John as if in invitation. Susannah busies herself taking his vitals and recording them. She frowns slightly as she listens to his lungs and uses the intercom to call for the doctor.

"What's going on?" Sherlock demands as she rechecks his lung sounds.

Susannah glances up at him. "I just want the doctor to check him out," she states cautiously.

John coughs, choking and wheezing for his next breath. Tears from the constant struggle to breathe run down his face. His blue grey eyes lock on Sherlock's and widen slightly with panic.

"Try to breathe, Dr. Watson," Susannah encourages him as the doctor comes through the door.

Sherlock steps to the foot of the bed so that he will be out of the way. His tension ratchets up another notch as the doctor makes her way over to John, and Sherlock grabs the foot of the bed, his knuckles turning white.

"I'm Doctor Carter," the young woman introduces as she pulls out her stethoscope and listens to John's lungs.

"Dr. Watson? Can you hear me?" the young doctor asks, her voice quiet yet commanding.

John tries to take a breath to answer but begins to suffocate from the strain that breathing requires. He nods instead.

"Good," she responds, looking down at him with a smile. "We're going to make you more comfortable, Dr. Watson. Try to remain calm."

Dr. Carter turns to the nurse saying, "I don't want to intubate him unless it's absolutely necessary, so let's get him back on a pulse ox monitor, please."

Susannah immediately clips the pulse ox monitor on John's right index finger and relays the information to the doctor.

"Get a mask on him and I want his stats checked every 15 minutes until we're clear, understood?" Dr. Carter orders confidently.

"Yes, Doctor," Susannah answers placing the oxygen mask securely over John's face.

Dr. Carter turns to walk away when a tall somewhat angry looking man steps into her path. "What's happening?" Sherlock demands, his voice deathly quiet.

"I believe that Dr. Watson has developed pneumonia. I'll prescribe an antiviral to help combat it. It's most likely viral as he's been on a strong antibiotic regimen for over 24 hours which would have killed anything bacterial," the young, petite doctor informs him quietly before continuing. "We'll continue to monitor his oxygen levels and as long as he's breathing fine on his own, we'll let him continue to do so."

Sherlock nods his acceptance of the information, and the doctor bids him goodnight before turning back to the nurse.

"Susannah, go ahead and put him on a catheter as well. He's not going to be getting up for a couple of days," Dr. Carter orders as she heads out the door.

"Yes, Doctor," Susannah answers setting the catheter in place. She gives John her most stern look.

"Leave the pulse ox monitor alone, Dr. Watson. You have to blood wear it now," she chastises then leaves after she's completely assured that her patient rests as comfortably as possible.

Sherlock turns toward John in the bed, his disdain for the situation evident in his body language. He returns to John's side and takes his hand, reassuring John with a tentative smile when his friend looks up at him.

"I find this turn of events completely unacceptable, John," he whispers using a flannel from the basin to wipe the other man's forehead.

* * *

Lestrade curses out loud when he enters John's room the following evening to see John lying in the bed wearing a full oxygen mask.

"Yes," Sherlock shares with the Detective Inspector as he finally makes it all the way into the room.

"Why didn't you text and let us know he'd taken a turn for the worse?" Lestrade demands turning on Sherlock angrily.

"I didn't think of it," Sherlock replies candidly.

"You didn't bloody think…," Lestrade sputters before realizing that the other man was only speaking the truth.

"Yes, John reminds me of the more mundane social graces that I have deleted," Sherlock answers looking at John's pale sleeping form in the bed.

"Makes sense. Never mind. The composite sketch BOLO we sent out didn't yield any other information as of yet, but we've issued an alert to the medical community to contact us with regards to any patient showing typhoid symptoms," Lestrade notes tiredly.

"Excellent," Sherlock's distracted tone echoes throughout the small room.

"You should go home and get some rest, Sherlock," Lestrade suggests, causing the young consulting detective to spear him with furious eyes.

Lestrade holds his hands up in front of him defensively. "You're not gonna do the man any good if you fall on your face," he reminds Sherlock.

"I have no intention of falling on my face," Sherlock snaps getting up from the chair and coming to stand next to John's supine form in the bed.

Lestrade rolls his eyes as he steps closer to the hospital bed. "You know, Sherlock…. sometimes it doesn't matter what you intend…," he begins only to be cut off by the consulting detective.

"I…am…not…leaving," Sherlock enunciates clearly, his eyes never straying from his friend lying more vulnerable than he has ever seen him.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade questions the pale man, placing his hand on the other man's arm.

"NO," Sherlock answers with more force than necessary, his flashing eyes zeroing in on Lestrade's in a heartbeat.

"Alright now…. I'm sorry…um…but, well, you know how _he_ gets and…well…to be…frank…he, um…scares me more than you do," Lestrade admits his lips drawn into a tight line.

Sherlock's amused smile at the Detective Inspector's confession causes the older man to glare at him.

"Watch it, or I'll withhold a few cases," Lestrade warns, his eyes fierce.

"You need me," Sherlock states without conviction.

Lestrade sighs and shakes his head. "God help me, but it's true," he admits as he walks out the door.

* * *

John moans heavily under the full-face mask. Sherlock startles awake and stumbles across the floor to his bedside, taking in the light filtering through the windows welcoming yet another new day in this place.

"John? Are you okay?" Sherlock asks quietly just in case the man's head still hurts.

John's groan turns into a wheezing sound under the mask.

"Sher…lock?" John sighs, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

"I'm here," Sherlock replies, clutching John's hand in his.

Sherlock checks his watch to see when the nurse will be returning, but seven minutes is too long for him to consider. Reaching across John, he pushes the call button and waits for the nurse to arrive.

Annie comes in through the door hurriedly looking towards Sherlock.

"His breathing sounds odd," Sherlock informs her as she makes it to the side of the bed.

"Breathing…boring," John adds with a small, secret smile.

Sherlock glares down at him. "Not when you're the one doing the breathing," Sherlock reminds him.

Annie smiles at the private joke before noting, "Breathing's important and necessary."

John raises his hand slightly remarking as he struggles for breath, "Tell…him."

Picking up the chest piece of her stethoscope, Annie places the diaphragm against John's chest bringing about a moan. She listens for several seconds before pressing the call button.

"Get Dr. Seymour in here right now, please," she demands holding her hand up to Sherlock to stave off any questions.

"He's on his way," a disembodied voice answers through the speaker several seconds later.

"As you know, we've been checking Dr. Watson's vitals every 15 minutes. I'm probably being overcautious, but I want to have the doctor take a listen," Annie relates calmly.

Dr. Seymour comes through the door quickly, straight to the bedside, as Annie begins to dictate the reasons she has called him in.

"Doctor, patient presents with wheezing and severe rales bilaterally; his O2 sat is 78%, respiration rate is 31 and extremely shallow, pulse 109, and BP is 160/94," Annie reports as Dr. Seymour warms his stethoscope. She quiets the second the chest piece touches John's chest.

Sherlock glances at his friend as he begins to choke. "Annie, prepare to intubate," Dr. Seymour orders as Annie pulls the tray over and disengages the bed brakes rolling the bed out from the wall a few feet. Dr. Seymour moves behind the bed superior to John's head.

"Administer 20 mg etomidate and push 100 mg succinylcholine, then give me a number 3 Macintosh, please," he orders, gently guiding the laryngoscope into John's mouth opening up his throat. "8.5 trach tube."

Sherlock tenses at the orders being delivered rapid fire to help his friend. He remains quiet hoping that they will forget his presence, and he not will be forced to leave John.

Dr. Seymour is gentle yet efficient as he pushes the tube in and twists on the respirator tube that Annie hands him which will lessen John's struggle to breathe.

Sherlock finds it odd to see him so completely still.

Dr. Seymour uses his stethoscope to determine that the tube sits correctly in the trachea. "No air sounds in the stomach, increased air sounds in the lungs. Nice job, Annie," he commends as he places the stethoscope back around his neck.

"Thank you, Dr. Seymour," she replies.

"Set up 14 mcg /h dex (medetomidine) continuous infusion rate for the next 12 hours then reevaluate," Dr. Seymour dictates before heading out the door.

Annie smiles and states evenly as if the world is not coming to an end, "He'll be okay, now." She pats Sherlock's arm reassuringly as she steps to the bottom of the bed next to him.

"Why did you do this to him?" Sherlock inquires, his face drawn up in suspicious concern.

Annie places her hand on his shoulder. "I know this was kind of scary. That's why they send the family out during these procedures. I knew there was no time to waste," she explains, pausing for a moment to think about how to word the next part.

She smiles, asking him, "You remember I told you that breathing is important and necessary?"

Sherlock nods affirmatively and motions impatiently for her to continue on.

"There are five conditions, any one of which is reason to put a patient on a ventilator. John had two of these conditions: a low pulse ox rate of only 78%, and he was having trouble clearing the drainage from his trachea so that he could breathe," Annie finishes quietly.

"Thank you," he whispers, his features relaxing slightly with her explanation.

"I'll be back in a little bit to check on him just before I leave for the day. I also need to move his IV because it's best to change it every 3 days. He will be okay, Sherlock. You just have to believe."

Sherlock stands in shock and muted denial at the foot of John's bed. His face is a hollow reflection of its usual pallor. Believe. Does she know what she's asking of him? This hasn't happened to just any random stranger. That would be completely acceptable. This has happened to John.

* * *

Lestrade glances at the text alert and seeing it's from Sherlock, reads it.

_John worse_

_On respirator_

_Arrest these idiots_

_SH_

"Bugger me," he curses, shakes his head and tosses the phone on the desk in front of him.

"Problem, sir?" Donovan inquires, taking a seat.

"John's on respirator now. I need to get over there and sit with Sherlock. I'm sure he's torturing the staff to within an inch of their sanity," Lestrade complains, his concern for John evident in the worry lines on his face.

"Sounds 'bout right," she agrees as his landline rings.

Lestrade motions for Donovan to wait a second and grabs up the receiver answering, "Lestrade."

"Really?" He replies into the phone.

The Detective Inspector actually smiles, gets up from his chair, retrieves his gun and stretches the line to reach for his coat. "Finally, some good news. We'll take care of it, thank you."

Lestrade rings off and texts the information to Sherlock, then turns to Donovan announcing, "A doctor rang into the Met constables about a patient he was treating with typhoid. This may be our guy, so let's not blow it."

They may have finally found their killer.

* * *

Lestrade knocks on the heavy black door with Donovan and Sherlock just behind him.

A young domestic helper answers the door. "May I help you?" she asks quietly.

"Yes, I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade; this is Detective Sergeant Donovan and a special consultant to New Scotland Yard, Sherlock Holmes. We need to speak to Malcolm Beechcroft, please," Lestrade respectfully requests as he and Sally hold up their identification.

She looks surprised but declines entrance into the house with, "I'm sorry, sirs, but Master Beechcroft is indisposed at the moment. May I take a message?"

"No, I'm sorry, but we need to speak to him as a matter of public safety. We received report that he is carrying a highly contagious disease, and we need to check out the claim," he redirects, as he steps into the foyer.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Miss…," Sally says agreeably, shaking the young girl's hand.

"Angeline," she replies, folding her hands together in front of her.

"You said he's been indisposed. Has he been ill?" DI Lestrade interrogates gently as Sherlock takes in as much information as possible as he stands in the entryway.

She smiles, nodding as she states, "Yes, the master is upstairs in his suite. I'll take you to him. Follow me, please."

They walk up the grand staircase to the second level and follow her down the right wing to the last door on the left where she knocks softly.

Rasping and coughing can be heard coming from the room.

"Come, Angeline," a deep, harsh voice calls out.

She opens the heavy mahogany doors to a magnificent master suite. The king size bed houses a tall man who is obviously very ill.

"Mr. Malcolm Beechcroft?" Lestrade sets to determine one last time.

The tall man, a healing cut over his left eye, nods in the midst of a breath stealing coughing fit.

"Where did you get that cut, Mr. Beechcroft?" the Detective Inspector inquires, gesturing toward his left eye.

"A little street rat gave it to me," he sneers, unconsciously rubbing the wound. "I caught her trying to steal my wallet, when I grabbed her she gave me this."

Sherlock looks him over very carefully.

_**Tiger Tattoo**_

_**Left Hand**_

_**Coughing**_

_**Daughter- Angeline**_

_**Wife- deceased**_

_**Corner rack-black trench coat**_

_**Furnishings-elaborate**_

_**Non-Smoker**_

_**Four bottles sanitizer **_

_**Dead Eyes**_

_**Conclusion: Psychopath, obviously. Boring.**_

"You're a psychopath," Sherlock announces, disappointment coloring his tone. "You don't kill for boredom; you kill because everything for you must be clean. The tiger represents power and strength that tears apart the weaker species. That's how you obviously think of yourself. Everything neat, orderly. You make your daughter work as a domestic. He has the fever as well," Sherlock identifies pacing the room, his face expressionless.

Sherlock walks out of the room considering it finished. He overhears Lestrade calling for an ambulance with contamination protocols.

Sally reads the suspect the right to silence.

"I have been….chosen…to be God's….Exterminator… rid….….vermin…in streets… …spread their filth. I do…. your job…keep…the streets…clean," Beechcroft yells maniacally, gasping for enough air to breathe.

"Shut it," Donovan warns with her deadliest glare and cuffs him to his bedpost.

Sherlock pushes out the main door to get fresh air. He wishes that John were here then feels ridiculous at the sentiment.

He hails a taxi and heads toward Baker Street. He must shower and change before going back to Princess Grace Hospital. He will hurry because he must get back to John.

* * *

"Get out," Sherlock vents silently in a harsh whisper to the greying nurse before him.

Lestrade comes through the door apparently in the nick of time, "What's going on here?"

Seeing a chance to speak to someone reasonable, she turns toward the man who's just come through the door. "I have explained to this…this…. man that he doesn't need to know why every little thing is being done, just that we are here to do our jobs, and we are doing them," the nurse, whose name tag reads June, pronounces, barely restraining her anger and frustration.

Lestrade smiles, "Were there perhaps any special instructions left for this patient?"

June looks shocked. "Annie wrote notes to explain all procedures to this Sherlock, but Annie hasn't been here very long and…," she explains, gesturing towards the man in question.

"She's been here long enough that I can tell she's not a complete idiot," Sherlock shouts, causing both June and Lestrade to flinch.

Lestrade gently guides June to the door. "Let me have a minute," he offers to the nurse as he firmly pushes her through it.

Lestrade turns, his face exhausted and near the end of his patience, to the stubborn man before him, "Sherlock…let me remind you of one simple fact. If you piss off this nurse, she'll probably kick you out, and John will be here alone until tomorrow morning when Annie gets back."

Sherlock's eyes widen with understanding as he considers the implications.

"She's an idiot, Lestrade," Sherlock hisses, his face drawn tight.

Lestrade pats his shoulder and replies, "Yes, but according to you nearly everyone is. Maybe you can give the nurse a little less attitude, and I'll talk to her about giving you more information, okay?"

Sherlock glances at the Detective Inspector, his face wrought with suspicion. He finally gives in the smallest bit imaginable.

He nods…once.

* * *

John thrashes in the bed as his hands clutch the bed rails. He shakes the rail in his right hand trying to get an exhausted Sherlock's attention.

He groans loudly, causing him to gag repeatedly.

Sherlock pops straight up to his feet and blinks furiously before stumbling to the side of the bed and taking John's hand in his.

"Hold on. I got you," Sherlock reassures him as he reaches over and pushes the call button.

Annie makes her way into the room. "Look who's up," she says with a smile, before paging the doctor. "Stay calm, Dr. Watson, the doctor will be here in just a minute to extubate you. We backed off the sedation when we saw that your lungs are nearly cleared up."

Dr. Carter walks through the door and over to the bedside, "Let's get this done. I know it's not pleasant. I know you're a doctor, but would you like me to go through the procedure?"

John shakes his head and releasing Sherlock's hand momentarily puts his hands together in the classic sign for begging. He then takes Sherlock's hand again grimacing at the discomfort of the tube down his throat.

"You ready?" Dr. Carter asks.

When John gives a thumb's up, Annie raises the bed to a 60º angle.

"Has the patient been pre-oxygenated?" Dr. Carter checks while suctioning out John's mouth and pharynx around the tube.

"Yes, Doctor," Annie replies with a nod.

Dr. Carter prepares to deflate the cuff. "Take a deep breath and hold it, Dr. Watson," she orders, as the process continues until the tube is clear.

Annie loosens the tape holding the endotracheal tube in position causing John to cringe at the discomfort.

"The cuff is fully deflated. Dr. Watson, I need you to cough for me as I remove the tube and again right after. On three. One. Two. Three," she counts as she pulls the tube rapidly and smoothly from his throat.

John gags and coughs as the tube is forcefully expelled from his throat, his hand tightening on Sherlock's.

Annie places the oxygen mask gently over his mouth and nose and encourages him to breathe deeply. "Keep breathing, Dr. Watson. You're doing fine," she adds as he seems to tire a bit.

"Are you having any trouble breathing?" Dr. Carter inquires as he continues to breathe deeply into the mask.

John shakes his head no, though there are tears from the stress in his blue grey eyes.

Sherlock continues to grasp his hand firmly. "You sure you're okay?" He asks John analyzing every micro-expression on the man's face.

John nods. "Fine," he croaks, motioning towards the pitcher for some water. Annie quickly gets him a cup and hands it to Sherlock to help his friend.

"Everything looks good. I have more rounds to make. Have a good day, Dr. Watson. I'll check on you later," Dr. Carter announces as she makes her way out the door.

Annie heads towards the door as well. "I'll be back to check on you in an hour. If you have any difficulty at all, especially with breathing, you use that call button, okay?"

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock relays shaking her hand with his free one, "Very much."

* * *

"I've been here for nine days, Sherlock. I'm going to lose my mind if we don't get out of here," John hisses through clenched teeth.

Lestrade pushes into the room.

"Oh, thank God. Someone to rescue me from this hell," John beams as Lestrade makes his way over to the bed.

"Nope, sorry. Got my own problems," Lestrade admits, running his hand along the bottom edge of his jaw.

"Problems? Everything okay?" John asks, leaning forward in concern.

Sherlock interrupts, "His wife left him again, and Anderson and Donovan had a row."

"Stop that!" Lestrade demands, his face deadly serious. "That's bloody annoying, you know."

Sherlock just looks at him uncomprehendingly causing John to burst out laughing, while using his left hand to guard his abdomen.

"Still sore?" Sherlock asks as he steps forward in concern.

"Bugger off," John exclaims, a smile breaking out on his face.

Lestrade reaches his hand out to John offering him praise, "Nice work on getting that serial killer. Figuring out that he had probably contracted typhoid is how we caught him. Thanks, John."

"You're welcome," John replies, his jaw cracking with a huge yawn.

"I better let you get some rest," Lestrade decides turning to make his way home at the end of a long day.

"Night, Greg," John says thankfully as the Detective Inspector walks out the door.

"You're quiet," John notes as he looks up at Sherlock wondering what he's thinking in that enormous brain of his. Suddenly, it hits him. He knows definitively what the detective must be thinking.

"There's nothing more you could have done, Sherlock," John whispers, his eyes drawn to those of the detective who quickly looks away.

Sometimes, John hates to be right.

"Anabeth died for nothing but the misguided ravings of a small minded idiot's hatred," Sherlock explains, giving John another cup of water.

John takes a few sips before handing it back to Sherlock's disapproval.

"Anabeth believed in what she was doing, Sherlock. They all do, and they do it for you because you care about them enough to help them," John observes, his gaze never leaving the taller detective's.

"You believe me to be much too noble, John. I need them. They serve a practical purpose, my network. _You _take care of them, and it is you that they truly care about. Their Dr. John," Sherlock reminds the selfless man before him.

John stifles a sigh. Sherlock is so very stubborn.

"I recognize that look, John, and I am not stubborn," Sherlock interjects, folding his hands together under his chin.

"You most certainly are stubborn," John argues once again, a huge smile on his face.

Sherlock's expression turns extremely serious. "It is good that you are feeling better. The doctor said that you could probably go home tomorrow, but I'm not sure about that," Sherlock admits to his best friend.

"You may not be sure, but the important thing is that I am sure," John snaps at the consulting detective.

"You were very sick, John. You almost died. They put you on that machine. I was not pleased," Sherlock notes, his expression less sure and more vulnerable than John has ever seen it.

"I know and I'm sorry that you were…concerned," John finds the right word to finish his sentence. "I'm much better now, and it's all going to be fine."

"I find it very difficult to believe that you could give me such a guarantee," Sherlock notes, his gaze turned introspective.

"I'm not an appliance. There's no bloody guarantee. I'm trying to make you feel better, you stupid git!" John supplies his irritation reinvigorated.

"Oh, and social convention dictates that I…." Sherlock fades out expecting John to fill in the blank as he always seem to do for him.

"Say 'Brilliant' and then shut the fuck up! That's what social convention dictates for fuck's sake!" John snaps at his annoying flatmate.

"John, I'm fairly certain that you were not providing the appropriate response according to what is socially acceptable," Sherlock reiterates as he paces back toward the bedside.

"Sherlock, I swear by all that's holy…" John's voice fades out as Annie moves down the hallway.

She smiles and shakes her head with amusement. She would report to Dr. Carter that the patient is in fighting form and more than ready to be released tomorrow as long as he gets some rest.

After all, with a best friend like Sherlock Holmes, the man would certainly need it.

**The End**


End file.
